


Refuge

by Eralk Fang (EralkFang)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Comfort Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-28 06:39:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6318613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EralkFang/pseuds/Eralk%20Fang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the destruction of Starkiller Base, Poe Dameron comforts a Hosnian refugee.</p>
<p>Or, Kylo Ren and the temptations of the Light.</p>
<p>
  <i>(Tagged as dubious consent because Kylo lies about his true identity. Otherwise fully consensual.)</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Refuge

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [the following prompt at tfa_kink](https://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org/3467.html?thread=5943179#cmt5943179):
>
>> Poe riding Kylo Ren's cock. That's it, really - that's the whole prompt. Just Poe Dameron straddling Kylo's lap and working himself to the best damn orgasm of his life. I kind of figured Kylo owes him one. :P
>> 
>> There's just one small catch: this is supposed to happen after the torture scene, perhaps even after the destruction of Starkiller Base. However, they are somewhere in a neutral territory and Poe has no idea what Kylo Ren actually looks like (he never removed the mask, did he?) so he just thinks he got really lucky with this weirdly handsome stranger. Also, Kylo is being very careful not to reveal his true identity because he knows that would result in instant (and possibly violent) rejection and he already risked too much by coming to look for Poe in secret (because he couldn't stop thinking about him!).
>> 
>> (Yeah, there might be an element of dub-con here because of the deception, but sex itself should still be fully consensual. Please.)

Poe could go back to base right now. His mission is complete. Mon Mothma’s illegitimate daughter is safely on her way to Coruscant. Even the First Order blockade around this sleepy planet has been lifted. There’s nothing keeping him in the Western Reaches. If he left now, he could be back two days ahead of schedule—Mariana had turned out to be handier with a blaster than she initially let on. He might even be able to surprise General Organa. 

But he can’t bring himself to go home, because home right now is medbay, the agonizing hours of just watching Finn breathe. It’s been a month since Starkiller Base, and Finn is still in a coma. The medidroids say not to worry. They say that this is uncommon but not unusual, that Finn is healing, and that Finn will come back to them when it’s time. But droid philosophy doesn’t comfort him. It only makes him feel more helpless. And when he looks at Finn, looks at his slowly healing back, he feels, illogically but painfully, responsible. 

So instead of going home, Poe is sitting in what passes for a tavern in the village where Mariana thought she’d been safe. He’s drinking what tastes like watered down engine oil in an alcove, almost hidden out of sight behind the scarves draped across the alcove’s archway. 

There’s a bit of a local crowd—there’s music, the owner’s eldest daughter accompanying her own voice on guitar—but here and there, there are patrons whose dress and haunted expressions mark them as not from around here. 

Poe recognizes them immediately as Hosnian refugees.

Despite the total annihilation wrecked on the Hosnian system, the First Order didn’t manage to kill everyone. Anyone who was off-world was spared, albeit without a world to come home to. (“Like Alderaan,” General Organa had said, and whatever pain she felt when she thought of her home world had obviously turned to flint long ago. Poe’s heart had ached for her.) The tattered remnants of the New Republic are trying to organize—every day seems to bring more New Republican survivors reaching out to General Organa, begging for forgiveness and help now that what she had always predicted would happen had come to pass.

She’s a better person than he is for not taking them to task for their blindness.

As Poe takes another sip of his drink, he suddenly feels eyes on him. He glances through the crowd to find a man leaning against the bar, staring steadily at him with dark eyes. He’s tall, pale, dark-haired, and handsome, although his features are a little overshadowed by the nasty scar crossing the right side of his face.

Poe smiles at him. 

The stranger blinks, disconcerted, but seems to take Poe’s interest as a cue. He straightens up— _way_ up, Poe notes approvingly—and moves across the tavern to Poe’s little alcove to tower over him.

“You’re Poe Dameron, aren’t you?” he asks. His voice is low and powerful, his gaze steady and intense. Poe grins up at him.

“You’ve heard of me.”

“The Poe Dameron that destroyed Starkiller Base?” The man’s tone doesn’t change. 

Poe laughs. “With my squadron and a lot of help, but—yeah. I’m that Poe Dameron.” 

The stranger swallows, and his eyes drop to the table. For a moment, Poe figures that he hasn’t thought past his opening move, but then he asks, “Can I buy you a drink?”

“You look like you could use it more than me.”

The man’s face flickers in confusion, for a moment, so Poe makes himself clear. “C’mon. Sit down,” he pats the seat beside him on the bench. 

The man ducks, his head brushing the scarves, and arranges himself and his long limbs on the very edge of the bench. “You can sit closer, I’m not gonna bite. Unless you ask real nice.” The stranger gives a small smile as he scoots closer to Poe, and, as Poe suspected, he’s cute when he does that. “What’s your name, traveller?” 

“Owen.”

“Are you with them, Owen?” The refugees scattered in the crowd look like individual family groups—a quartet of grim-faced sisters, two women with their son—but they could be all together. 

Owen glances down. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Poe nods. “I can imagine. Looks like they did a number on you.” He gestures to the scar on Owen’s face. It must be new, judging from both how pink the healed tissue is and how Owen’s hand flies to his face, as if he’d forgotten it was there. 

“Well,” Owen says, giving Poe that same small smile, “you should see the other guy.”

They laugh, and Poe likes that sound in Owen’s throat. (Owen’s _very_ nice throat.) He probably hasn’t had much to laugh about in the last month. Neither has Poe. 

So Poe makes it his mission to make Owen laugh with a vengeance. He tells him stories about daring rescues and a few less-than-spectacular missions, for modesty’s sake. Playing the hotshot pilot is a bit of a posture for Poe, but it’s familiar, almost comfortingly so. If Poe is trying to make Owen forget about what happened to his home world, then he’s also trying to forget about the bedside vigil that waits for him at home.

“And then the Hutt says, this isn’t what I ordered!” Poe slams his hand down on the table, grinning. Owen laughs his low, dark chuckle, and it feels like a victory. Owen smiles his strained smile at Poe. He’s beautiful like that, Poe thinks. Poe reaches out, casually, and brushes his fingertips against the back of Owen’s hand where it rests on the table, stroking his long fingers.

Owen’s eyes flicker to their hands, and then back up to Poe’s eyes. His face is suddenly serious, almost searing in its intensity. It’s the result he’d hoped for, but he still yelps a little in surprise when Owen lunges forward to kiss him. Owen kisses like a freighter—sloppy and overwhelming, with _intent_. Poe opens his mouth to admit Owen’s tongue, almost startled to feel heat starting to pool in his belly already. Has it been that long? 

When Owen pulls back, he looks… _scared_. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he confesses, ducking his head. 

Poe tilts Owen’s head back up with his index finger, gazing steadily into his eyes. Owen doesn’t make a noise, but his lips tremble at the touch. It’s not just that he wants this, Poe realizes, it’s that he needs this, needs something to think about besides the end of his world. 

Poe can’t help Finn right now, but he can help Owen. 

And himself in the process, if he’s being totally honest.

Poe cups Owen’s face—the left side, not the right side with its scar—and kisses him, more gently than Owen kissed him, licking his lips apart. Owen makes a little noise at that and pulls at Poe’s waist with his big hands. Poe feels the sudden overwhelming urge to crawl into Owen’s lap, mount that tall, broad body. 

The alcove, despite its scrim of scarves, suddenly feels too public. 

“Owen,” Poe asks, voice low, “do you want to go somewhere more private?”

“Yes,” Owen groans against his mouth.

 

Somewhere more private turns out to be the room Owen is renting for the night, on the second floor of the tavern. It’s not much, but there’s a bed and a door that locks. 

Not that he sees much of it before Owen pins him against the door by his shoulders, fists his hands in Poe’s new jacket, and starts kissing him like he’s trying to suck all the air out of Poe’s lungs. It takes Poe a minute to realize his toes aren’t touching the floor. Owen is _strong_ —he could probably pick Poe up, fuck him against the wall without breaking a sweat. Poe groans into Owen’s mouth at the idea. 

When Owen breaks away just to _breathe_ , Poe finds himself panting as Owen sets him down gently. He grins up at Owen. “What, I don’t rate the full tour?” he cracks.

Owen bites his lip and the corner of his mouth quirks. He takes a few staggering steps backwards, staring at him. He sits down on the end of the bed. It groans under his weight. 

He’s looking at Poe like he wants to memorize him. The attention is intoxicating. Poe takes a few steps forward and shucks off his jacket. He tosses it to the floor as he steps between Owen’s knees.

Owen tilts his head to look up at him, and it’s a nice angle. Poe reaches out, tracing the unscarred side of Owen’s face before cupping the back of his head, threading his fingers through his long hair. “Hey,” he says.

Owen makes a soft noise that might be a “hey” back and swallows, his gorgeous neck contracting. His big hands settle on Poe’s hips, thumbing the hem of Poe’s shirt. Poe smiles. 

“You’re right, I am a little overdressed,” he says, and tugs his shirt off by the back of the collar. Owen blinks furiously and rakes his gaze over Poe’s chest. Poe pulls his hand back to tip Owen’s chin up, pressing his thumb into that plush lower lip. “And so are you.”

Poe’s breath catches when Owen’s tongue darts across his thumb. Owen’s eyes crinkle a little as he almost smiles. His hands disappointingly leave Poe’s hips to unbutton his shirt, but Poe bats his hands away. “Let me.”

Owen’s dark shirt buttons all the way down, so Poe has to stoop and then kneel to undo them. He pushes the shirt over Owen’s broad, beautiful shoulders and—

“ _Wow_.” Poe’s a fit guy and works to stay that way, but this is something else. Owen must have been in one of the Hosnian system’s militias, one that took their job seriously even if the Senate didn’t, based on the muscles flexing under his skin. Part of it is genetics—he’s a big guy, which makes Poe’s cock twitch at the idea of where else he might be big—but part of it must be training. 

Poe suddenly feels very, very lucky. 

There’s also another nasty scar on Owen’s left side. It hasn’t healed as cleanly as the one on his face—its lines are jagged and angry. Poe glances up at Owen. Owen’s watching him with dark, unreadable eyes, daring him to be disgusted. Poe’s heart aches for him. 

He tucks his fingers into the waistband of Owen’s pants and kisses his chest as close to the scar as he dares—he has no idea how sensitive it is. Owen gulps somewhere above him. Poe tilts his head back and places his hand on the back of Owen’s neck.

“Whatever did this to you, you survived it,” Poe tells him. “You’re lucky, Owen. We both are.” 

He tugs Owen’s head down to kiss him on the mouth. And then the neck, and the clavicle, and the rounded edges of his chest, working his way down Owen’s chest until his chin hits his belt. Owen’s breathing hitches in anticipation, and the sound makes Poe half-hard. 

“Can I suck your cock?” Poe asks, as he undoes Owen’s belt.

Owen nods shakily. 

Poe reaches in Owen’s underwear and pulls him out of it. Owen’s cock is of a size with him, so—it’s impressive. Poe’s seen bigger, but not in a long time. He wraps a hand around it and glances up at Owen, who is just staring at him with a little shocked expression and starting to go slightly red around the edges. Poe keeps watching him as he puts his mouth on him, watches him blink rapidly and his mouth fall open. 

There’s no way he can take all of Owen’s cock, despite the appeal of the idea, so Poe uses his other hand to cup Owen’s balls, rolling them a little. He sucks on the tip gently, swirling his tongue around it. Owen groans as his eyes roll into the back of his head. 

Poe pulls off a little to slap the head of Owen’s cock against his tongue. Owen makes a low, breathy noise, digging his hands into the threadbare quilt, and leaks salty precome against Poe’s tongue. The feel of it makes Poe’s cock ache and strain at his fly. He suppresses the urge to take a hand off of Owen to tend to himself and tongues Owen’s slit clean instead. 

“Your mouth is so _good_ ,” Owen moans. Poe grins up at him.

“Yeah, it’s pretty good. But my ass would be better.” 

Owen shudders and leaks into Poe’s mouth again; Poe’s grin widens. He pulls off Owen’s dick and, unable to resist the temptation, pumps it with his hand a little before releasing him. Owen awkwardly skitters backwards on the bed until his shoulders bump against the wall. 

Poe takes the opportunity to strip out of his pants and underwear, hard cock bobbing slightly as he lifts his feet up one by one to take off his boots and socks. Owen’s eyes rake over his body, dark eyes foggy with lust. “You too,” he says, and Owen jerks into motion, shucking off his pants, socks, and boots.

“Do you have anything—?” Poe makes an obscene gesture with two fingers, and Owen shakes his head.

“No.” His voice is getting a little deeper and a little raspier with lust. Poe bites his lip as the sound of it goes straight to his already aching cock. He takes a breath, trying to master himself. He wants this to last. 

“There’s usually something lying around in a nice place like this,” he says, wandering around the side of the bed. Owen’s eyes never leave him. “And there are other ways for us to have fun.” He’s overstating the niceness of the tavern’s lodgings, but, as he suspected, the drawer in the bedside cabinet contains a toothbrush, a comb, and a small bottle of oil. 

Poe takes it, closes the drawer, and sits down on the bed, turning the bottle over in his hands. He starts when Owen leans over to kiss his shoulder. “Mmm,” he says. “That’s nice.” He sets the bottle on top of the bedside cabinet and turns to kiss Owen properly. Owen still kisses with more intensity and enthusiasm than technique, but he’s calmed down enough that he’s no longer trying to choke Poe with his tongue. 

Poe’s surprised to find he kind of misses that. 

When Owen pulls at his waist, Poe breaks the kiss to hop onto the bed and straddle him properly. Owen makes a gorgeous sound when he puts his weight on his stomach, balls brushing against his impressive abs. “You ready to finger me open with those big hands of yours?” Poe asks against Owen’s mouth.

“What?” Owen blinks up at him.

Poe pulls back a little. Shit, Owen is gorgeous, how did he not notice how much before? His eyes are a little glassy, but his face is actually relaxed, plush mouth turned down. Poe feels a sudden urge to kiss everyone of his moles and does so, making Owen hum.

Into his ear, Poe whispers, “You are not fucking me with _that_ without opening me up a little.” 

“ _Oh_ ,” Owen says. Poe ducks his chin at the bedside cabinet, and Owen takes the hint, reaching over for the little bottle of lubricant. It looks even smaller in Owen’s big hands as he applies some of it to his fingers.

Poe fists his hands and braces them on the bed on either side of Owen’s shoulders, lifting his hips up so he’s on all fours above Owen. Owen reaches around him, unerringly slipping his cold, wet fingers between Poe’s cheeks and against his hole. Poe stifles a little cry of pleasure as Owen presses a finger into him slowly, and leans down to kiss him passionately when he feels Owen press a second finger into him. Owen crooks and scissors his fingers gently, and Poe groans into his mouth. 

It’s slow and unhurried, Owen fingering him as they kiss, as Poe’s cock leans precome onto his stomach. As if they have all the time in the world, as if the galaxy isn’t crumbling down around their heads. Poe thinks that he could stay like this for hours, and then Owen presses his prostate, making him groan into his mouth, and his languid, liquid desire for Owen suddenly sharpens into need. “I need your cock _now_ ,” he says, looking into Owen’s dazed eyes.

Owen nods shakily and replaces his fingers with the blunt head of his cock. Poe’s mouth twitches at the feeling of it, and he presses back, spearing himself slowly on Owen’s cock.

It feels—well, it feels as big as it is, but Owen opened him up pretty good. It’s a good, _full_ feeling, and he hums a little at the sensation. He sinks down slowly, less because he can’t take it any faster and more because Owen’s eyes have closed and he seems lost in the sensation of it, beautiful mouth slack with lust. He feels like Owen gets more gorgeous every time he looks at him.

When he’s fully seated on Owen’s cock, he takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Are you alright?” Owen’s eyes opens and he runs a concerned hand down Poe’s back.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just been a while since I took something this big.”

Owen’s lips quirk into something approaching a smile. Poe grins at him, wrinkling his nose. 

He sits up on Owen’s cock, bouncing a little experimentally. Owen thrusts into him a little, and he groans at the feeling of Owen moving in him. Another time, he’d let Owen hold him down, have all that strength dedicated to fucking him until he came, but not tonight. Poe clenches down on Owen’s cock, and Owen makes a strangled noise and grabs at his hips. He rubs thumbs over Poe’s hip bones, staring at Poe, his intense, strange gaze making Poe feel like his skin is on fire. “You’re beautiful,” he says.

Poe’s impulse to crack wise, tell Owen he’s not so bad himself, but Owen’s eyes are wet. 

“Hey.” Poe leans over and kisses him. “Hey. You’ve been through enough. Let me take care of you.”

Owen makes a strangled noise, closes his eyes, and pulls Poe’s hips down, pulling him farther down onto his cock. He barely brushes Poe’s prostate and Poe lets out a startled, soft moan as a wave of pleasure overwhelms him. He’s close—closer than he wants to be. He doesn’t want this to end. His cock is aching desperately, red and leaking, but he ignores it and kisses Owen sloppily. Owen clutches at his back, nails scraping against his skin. Poe fucks back onto Owen’s cock, trying and failing to go slowly, his head going fuzzy at the edges with his need for more—more friction, more force, more of this man. He trails kisses down Owen’s face and then buries his face in Owen’s neck, mouthing and licking blindly as he starts riding him in earnest.

Poe’s world narrows to this room, to the pleasurable, aching fullness of Owen deep within him, the curve of Owen’s neck under his tongue, Owen’s soft, hitching breathing. “ _Fuck_ , you feel so good, you feel so right,” he moans into his neck. He slides a hand up Owen’s stomach and chest blindly, rubbing his fingers against the nipple he finds there. Owen, surprised, moans into his mouth, the sensual noise reverberating through his body, and that undoes the last threads of Poe’s self-control. He moves back onto Owen’s cock and barely manages to wrap his hand around his cock before he comes, spilling over his hand and Owen’s stomach as he gasps into Owen’s mouth. He comes so hard that he starts shaking—it’s so much more intense than he thought it would be. 

When he stops shaking, he realizes that Owen’s stopped moving, despite still being so hard Poe can feel every twitch of his cock deep inside of him. He glances up at Owen in confusion. “You came,” Owen says, looking unsure. 

Poe smiles. “And you haven’t.” It’s easier to focus on working Owen’s cock when he’s not overwhelmed with the need to come, although Owen’s startled, lust-struck face when he gyrates his hips makes Poe’s drained cock twitch and ache weakly. Owen grabs at his hips again, thrusting against him, but Poe slams back onto him, dropping his whole weight onto his cock. “I said I’d take care of you,” he says.

Owen groans in response, eyes rolling back into his head. He looks so gorgeous, so wanton, that Poe finds himself leaning down and kissing him before he’s even thought of doing it. He murmurs nonsense to Owen as he clenches down on his cock, as he kisses him. It’s basic stuff—“you’re so beautiful,” “your dick feels so good,” but mostly, “I’ve got you.”

Owen comes with a soft cry into Poe’s mouth. Poe works him through his orgasm, kissing his neck, his jaw, his eyelids. When Owen recovers enough to kiss him back, Poe smiles against his lips and lifts his hips up, letting Owen’s softening cock slide out of him. He dismounts awkwardly—his legs feel a little like jelly, from squatting over Owen for so long and from the intensity of his orgasm. He lies down next to Owen, whose breathing is just starting to regulate. There aren’t any handy socks at hand to wipe Owen’s stomach clean of Poe’s come, so Poe grabs a corner of the threadbare quilt on the bed to do it. They’ve already made a mess on it, he reasons. Owen glances down at him, as if surprised by this, and that’s a good angle on him, too—sweaty hair plastered to his face, eyes soft, so well-fucked he looks a little startled by it. 

“Thank you,” Owen says, voice low and still a little trembling. 

“Don’t mention it,” Poe says, and kisses his shoulder. They lie there in comfortable silence for a few moments, Poe drumming his fingers against Owen’s chest. “Owen?”

Owen glances down at him, his dark eyes unreadable. “Mmm?”

“I don’t know where you’re headed, but… we could always use someone like you in the Resistance.”

He feels Owen tense underneath his hand. Skittish, he thinks, like a stray. Which he now is, thanks to the First Order. “I can’t,” Owen says, after a long moment.

“Okay,” Poe says, and kisses him gently. “Okay.” He wraps an arm around Owen and rests his head on his shoulder. He’ll convince him in the morning, he thinks, as he drifts off to sleep. 

But when Poe wakes up with a start from a nightmare, he’s alone. 

 

It’s only when he’s safely onboard his shuttlecraft and in orbit that Kylo Ren allows himself to acknowledge the mistake he made in seeking Poe Dameron out. 

He knew it was a mistake even before he left the _Finalizer_ , when he lied to himself that the Supreme Leader would not miss him for a few days more. But what else was he to do after Dameron started to invade his dreams? He dreamed of torturing him, at first, reliving the experience of being in Poe’s head, but then he began to dream of capture, of being delivered at Dameron’s feet, of being _held_ … 

He grits his teeth against the memory of such weakness. He had thought killing his father would have silenced the call to the Light, but he’d been wrong. The temptation of the Light takes many forms, and Dameron is only its latest. He had seen only one solution, only one way to quiet the need inside of himself—killing Dameron.

He’d sought him out to do so, but when he’d actually seen him again, his handsome face haunted, his resolve had faltered. And when Dameron had smiled at him, it failed completely. His resolve had been replaced with half-remembered dreams and fantasies of what it would be like for Dameron to touch him without fear or hatred, what it would be like to simply be able to kiss him with no history, war, or blood between them. 

For a moment, remembering Dameron’s touch, he’s overwhelmed by the call to the Light. He slams his hand against the bulkhead, hoping the pain will steady him. It does, as he breathes furiously through his nose. 

True, Dameron had treated him with a kindness he didn’t deserve, but that was only because Dameron hadn’t recognized him, either as Kylo Ren or as Ben Organa-Solo. Dameron had given that kindness to someone else, someone he wasn’t, someone he could never be. He would have never treated Kylo Ren that way—he would have turned away in anger, hatred, and disgust. 

Kylo’s breathing evens out. The love of the Light is treacherous and conditional. He knows this intimately. Has he not been cast out, time and again, from the Light only to find true acceptance in the Dark Side? His longing for the Light is a weakness, one that must be extinguished if he is to assume his grandfather’s mantle. He was wrong to stray on the way to Supreme Leader Snoke. 

He will go to his master, and finish his training, and yearn no more for the Light. 

Or the touch of a kind hand.


End file.
